


Understanding John

by TheTalentedMrHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Femlock, Fluff, Gender Fluid Character, Past Sherlock Holmes/ Victor Trevor, Pegging, Sexuality, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalentedMrHolmes/pseuds/TheTalentedMrHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Operation Study John's Sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding John

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick random fluffy character study type thing :) Un-beta'd.

The first time Sherlock was conscious of seeing it (because she had known all along subconsciously, of course) was during one 'Bond night' and curry that John had forced upon her.

Instead of watching (as it was one they had watched before and repetition bored her) she stared blankly at the screen and let her mind wander.

John had a fondness for Bond because of the action involved, as well as the witty humour. Bond probably reminded John of himself on the womaniser front too; Sherlock had gained knowledge of _'Three Continents Watson's'_ notoriety a few months previous.

John loved Bond. But it took several films and twice as many rewatches for Sherlock to understand:

John _loved_ Bond.

John's favourites were ones that flattered Bond's sexual prowess. At first Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant, then she decided it appealed to John so he could 'connect' with the character.

But John didn't watch the seduction or the women, he watched _Bond_.

This raised an interesting hypothesis that Sherlock aimed to study in more detail. Understanding John was one of her favourite little past times, after all.

The rest of the evening passed seemingly normally, however Sherlock subtly measured John's physiological reactions to violent, amusing and (most importantly) sexual scenes throughout.

*

Sherlock kept records of ongoing studies and experiments in little notebooks. Often they were seen scattered around the flat, but the one that contained her most recent study of John was kept close to her chest. If John read the book he would immediately put a stop to it, or at least get overly self conscious and ruin it all.

So far she had recorded John's attention differences when watching Bond films, but she needed more data.

Fortunately she got it two weeks later.

The case had been somewhat interesting; two modelling agencies were warring over one male model and the next thing they knew he ended up dead.

Sherlock had taken stacks of portfolios of various models (male and female) including the victim's, from both agencies and strategically left them where John would look.

As suspected, John's eyes widened slightly when he sat down in his chair after his shower that morning. Sherlock watched keenly from behind her laptop.

"One might think you were suddenly into fashion, Sherlock." John teased, picking up their victim's portfolio. Excellent.

"When have I not presented myself as stylish?" Sherlock replied, appearing nonchalant.

"True, your wardrobe is more expensive than the flat, but that's more to do with appearance sake. For the work. I know you'd rather be like that-" he nodded to Sherlock's state of undress: only wrapped in a sheet. "-over your fancy suits and heels any day."

They were getting off topic, so Sherlock simply ignored him in favour of thinking of a way to drive them back to her subject of interest.

Only it seemed John could do that well enough on his own. "Poor bugger," he muttered, running a thumb over one of the pictures. It was near the top and five pages in. "No wonder the agencies were fighting."

"You think he was good at his job?" She prodded.

John shrugged. "I suppose there's more to it than looking nice, but he's got that down alright from the looks of it." The file was put down and the newspaper picked up.

Later when John had gone to get dressed Sherlock sought out the picture five pages in and near the top. The picture was relatively modest. The man wore a suit, however the jacket was slung across a shoulder, the tie hanging loose, the shirt no longer buttoned and neither were the trousers. Whether the picture was supposed to advertise suits or perfume, Sherlock had no idea nor did she care. John had gravitated towards this picture and made a comment on the model's attractiveness.

Either that was simply John not being blind (the model was indeed attractive) or John had a thing for muscular men in suits.

The data was still inconclusive.

*

In retrospect taking John to a gay bar 'for a case' probably hadn't been worth it. She had no new data on John other than the fact that he wasn't uncomfortable around the heterosexuals, homosexuals, or any other label of sexuality that had been there. It didn't mean anything for John's own sexuality, which had disappointed her, but at least she knew that John was mature enough to not cause problems.

Another of Sherlock's regrets was that rather than keeping up the pretence of a case, she had decided their suspect had escaped and jokingly offered John a drink. He accepted and they were more than tipsy at the end of the hour. Sherlock had ended up with bruised ribs and they were thrown out of the bar. They found it hilarious at the time, but waking up unable to move and with a mouth that desperately needed toothpaste and a scrubbing was less than enjoyable.

"John I'm dying," Sherlock bemoaned, voice scratchy as she writhed. John however was quite chirpy beside her, despite having just woken up.

He pressed a hand to her stomach to steady her and she pouted. Her eyes were still shut tight, so she couldn't tell if it had the desired effect.

"This is what you get for drinking and not eating, you know." He said, sounding far too smug for her liking.

Moaning again, Sherlock batted away his hand. "My ribs hurt," she just said, knowing that John was right on some level.

Oddly enough they were both fully dressed, although one of Sherlock's shoes seemed to be missing. It took her a moment before she recalled it slipping off on the stairs up to John's bedroom. She hadn't wanted to leave his company and after a few well timed begs he was perfectly accommodating. It wasn't the first time they slept in the same bed for convenience sake after all.

John threw away the tangled sheets that smelled like home and tea, and lifted up Sherlock's shirt, quite rudely prodding at her painful ribs. "It's just bruised on the skin. The muscles and bones are okay."

"No, I'm dying. My lungs have been punctured," Sherlock said, throwing an arm over her eyes.

"He didn't punch you that hard. Anyway, I think you blinded him with your own punch. Were you aiming for his nose?" John asked, bemused as he put her shirt down again.

"He's killed me, John. I'll never work again," Sherlock said, producing a false sob. Her ribs protested at that though, so she didn't try another and lowered her arm.

John rolled his eyes and got up. He took off his shoes then sorted out the duvet. "I'll get you some ice, painkillers and food." He said, sounding like a doctor. Sherlock smothered a smile. "And maybe a mint."

Sherlock kicked out at him, hiding her amusement as he dodged it and her other heel came flying off.

She hadn't gotten any data for her study, but she had at least enjoyed herself.

*

Sherlock had had a total of two sexual and romantic partners. One female, one gender fluid. She'd originally been disappointed that there had been little opportunity for a cis male partner during university too, but having incomplete data for that experiment wasn't something she would regret for long.

It was a triple homicide that had allowed Sherlock and John to be involved in the case with Victor. After the murders of popular critic writers there had been growing tension about who was next. Scotland Yard had been called in of course, but Victor - a critic himself - had known to call Sherlock personally.

Victor presented as male when she and John met him over coffee in Speedy's. For the first five minutes she simply observed him and compared the image of him now to the image of his younger self. Victor sat there in good natured silence as he drank his coffee, far too used to that treatment.

The conversation got underway about the case when John couldn't stand the silence anymore and Sherlock filed away her data for later use.

A week later there had been another murder just an hour before Sherlock had worked out who the killer was. The next day when they met with Victoria in the flat Sherlock had been sullen and moody. The killer was behind bars, but she had been outwitted; she was too slow.

"Sherlock you did brilliantly," Victoria said soothingly, her short hair neatly combed behind her ears. She took Sherlock's hand in her own darker one and Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"Not fast enough, however." She replied. John put tea on the coffee table for them in front of the sofa where they were sat and retreated to his chair by the fireplace.

"You worked it out, isn't that what matters? You worked it out and now more lives have been saved. I follow your blog sometimes you know. Yours and Doctor Watson's. I'd rather hear the fun from the source after all; I know just how rotten the papers can be. You're so, so clever Sherlock. But you're human, you're going to make mistakes every now and then. And you're a damn sight better than Scotland Yard anyway - isn't that what you've always said?"

Sherlock refused to blush at the compliments but she let her mouth twitch into a small smile. Victoria was right; her success rate was at least 30% better than Lestrade's. She caught John's eye and he was watching them intently, but for one of the only times ever Sherlock couldn't interpret his stare.

Sherlock felt slightly better after that talk and refused Victoria's money with a pleasant smile. John told her to keep in touch before she left and Sherlock found that mildly amusing.

"It's been nearly ten years since I saw her last, why would we keep in touch?" She asked when they were alone and slumped lazily over the sofa.

"It's just a thing people say, Sherlock. Anyway, you seem to get on well." John replied, clearing away the cups.

"We didn't break up along side screaming and tears if that is what you mean," she drawled.

"Oh? I thought you were just friends," John mused, giving Sherlock a funny look.

"Yes well, he was an excellent lover," Sherlock replied with a smirk (swapping back to Victor's preferred pronoun when he wasn't around), knowing that John had still been entertaining the impression that she was potentially a virgin.

"Well you suit each other," John laughed, settling down in his chair.

"How so?"

"You're both posh and attractive," he teased. "Oh, and intelligent. I looked at some of the articles and essays he's written."

Sherlock perked up at that. 'Posh' could either be referring to their accent, or their style of dress. Victor had worn a suit their first meeting. Sherlock's hypothesis was slowly shifting from _'potential homosexual inclinations'_ to _'men in suit fetish'_.

"Attractive?" She asked, ignoring the fact John had technically called her attractive too. "You think so?"

"Yeah, well," John laughed, reaching for the remote. "I would."

( _I would._

 _I would_...think he was attractive?

 _I would_...have sex with/date him if I were attracted to men?

 _I would_...be interested because Victor also presents as female?

 _I would_... because I have a thing for suited men?)

Recording these thoughts down in her notebook, Sherlock began to realise how she was being too subtle for the likes of John Watson to get any decent evidence in this far more complex matter than she had first thought.

*

Sherlock had timed it all perfectly. John had gone out for drinks with Lestrade and was due home any minute.

She sat cross legged on the sofa in her silk robe and waited. On the screen of the telly were two men having rather loud intercourse. There were no suits in sight, so hopefully John would either have interest or not.

"Sherlock? What's that- _Christ_!"

An exclamation of shock was probably warranted. Sherlock looked up to see John's expression matching his surprised words.

"Did you have a nice time with Gavin?" She asked pleasantly, turning back to the telly and shifting up on the sofa, an obvious invitation for John to sit. He was obviously too stunned to think properly about protesting (or too drunk) and so he sat without comment, nodding dumbly.

Sherlock felt his eyes watching her, glancing between the screen and her in bemusement, before he finally settled on the screen.

"Yeah, good time." He said distractedly, then licked his lower lip.

"I'd imagine that would be difficult," Sherlock said, referring to the position on screen and not enjoying oneself in Lestrade's company. She glanced at John expectantly.

"Not really. As long as you're strong enough." He replied, blinking as though he was trying to force himself sober.

"Are you?" She asked, blood pounding, she was a bloodhound on a scent now and there was no stopping her.

"Probably not anymore," John laughed, catching Sherlock's eye with a misty drunken gaze.

"But you were?" She prompted.

"Mhmm," he hummed, smiling. "Oh yeah."

"In the army?" Sherlock suggested, just needing that final proof.

"Hm?" John was distracted by the moaning men once more. Sherlock tapped her fingers impatiently; she was so close. "Sometimes. Hurts your arms after a while."

_For gods sake he was still on about the bloody position!_

"No, did you ever have sex with men, John?" She asked, trying to keep her tone from becoming terse.

John gave a nod and a smug look. "Three Continents Watson, you know."

Sherlock rolled her eyes but huffed out a laugh in relief. "I do know, yes. Unless you want to continue watching I would suggest you go to bed. You know you're terrible at masturbation when drunk."

"Piss off!" John laughed, shoving Sherlock. "I told you to keep things like that to yourself, you know."

"Must have slipped my mind," Sherlock replied absently, allowing herself for a moment to imagine John as one of the men on the screen. A stab of heat hit her stomach and her breath hitched.

"Can't believe I called you stylish," John muttered, bringing Sherlock back to the present. He was fussing over her sheet, fumbling hands covering her up, alcoholic breath on her lips.

Sherlock stood abruptly and escaped to her room - her sheet and John abandoned in the living room.

*

Could it be possible that she'd been so distracted by the stupid study that she'd been blinded?

John had been aroused when looking at the telly, but when he looked at her he was positively high on his arousal. He'd wanted to kiss her, she was sure, but even more alarming was that she realised she wanted it too.

She would have to be direct about this. There would be no room for error (there was a chance that John never bottomed, for example), just in case everything up until now had been wrong and her mind was rendered useless from lust. 

But she needed time to plan.

*

The events of the night before were being stubbornly ignored by John, but he wasn't avoiding her which she supposed was good.

Sherlock suggested curry and a Bond film and, as always, John accepted. Perhaps it would dissolve some of the tension she was feeling.

Halfway through Casino Royale Sherlock had settled herself with her head in John's lap and she hummed happily when his hand began to play with her curls. John would be a good lover, she mused. He would be considerate and take enjoyment out of her pleasure. He would enjoy the thrill of something kinky, or of the rush that came from a rough shag. He would clean her up and kiss her gently and roll his eyes when she wouldn't move over.

More and more Sherlock had begun to see that she was hooked on John. Now the thought was in her mind she couldn't stop thinking about John and sex.

Slowly she sat up, propped by her elbow on the arm rest, until she was level with John. His arm came around her waist to support her and she leaned into the touch.

"Kiss me," she prompted in a near whisper. John's eyes looked uncertain, but dropped to her mouth. He was tempted. "I want you."

"God, Sherlock." He murmured, lips so close to hers. "I thought you'd never ask."

They were kissing before she could wonder over that statement and all other thoughts flew out the window. It was soft, almost chaste, before Sherlock pressed forwards with a eager noise in her throat, deepening the kiss.

*

Along with being in a relationship with John, Sherlock could now sleep in his bed too. His room was clean like her own, but his style of organisation was a lot more precise. The bed still smelled like home and tea, but a faint trace of her own scent lingered on the sheets. It was perfect.

The only downside was that John now insisted that she didn't bring any experiments into the bedroom. Her bone samples had to be binned after that small row.

But that was the only thing she wasn't happy with. John had even said he understood that she might treat sex like food or sleep: during a case it could be distracting and must be avoided. Although she did do some of her best thinking when they were orally pleasuring each other.

Her study was no longer on going; she had lots more facets of John to study now that he was more open with her.

It was John's birthday and she had a plan that involved the results of her study, however.

Once more John was out with Lestrade and a few others for drinks and Sherlock stayed at home. John seemed disappointed, but at the mention of a present he brightened and kissed her goodbye.

With half an hour before John was due back, Sherlock lay flat on their bed and stroked fingers between her legs gently. She thought of how John would react to her surprise and hoped he would be excited by the mere sight of the toy between her legs.

She slowly worked the bulbous part inside her and shuddered when it stretched her. The other part of the toy was a shaft like a penis, standing erect from her hips like the real thing. She stood and groaned, feeling the part inside her graze against her inner walls.

The shift in her centre of gravity was strange, but not off putting. She rolled her hips, imagining the movement she would need to perfect. Humming thoughtfully, the shaft of the fake cock was soon lubed up and Sherlock was fucking her hand for practice.

Happy that she was used to the movement and had a good feel of the strap on with no straps, she wandered around the flat wearing her robe. Just walking aroused her; it caused the part inside to rock and press against the sweet spot, as well as grind her clit against the shaft of the toy.

She had to lie back down on the sofa before she got too excited.

Her willpower wasn't strong enough though and she began stroking her cock again, as though she were wanking. She moaned, not hearing John come in, and started grinding down against the toy and arching her back in pleasure.

"I thought it was my birthday, not yours." John said. Sherlock's eyes flew open in surprise. He was smiling with amusement and didn't look overly tipsy; perhaps he'd had the foresight to not drink too much. He made his way over to Sherlock and stroked her inner thigh possessively as he perched on the sofa.

"Your-Your present," Sherlock purred breathlessly, chest heaving from her exertions. "Undress and get the lube," she commanded, closing her eyes again and rocking her hips with that wanking movement of her hand once more.

John returned a few moments later looking nervous but hard and Sherlock shifted into a sitting position to make room. The toy shifted even deeper inside her and she moaned.

"Let me see," John murmured, parting Sherlock's legs. His fingers slipped around the shaft and tugged gently, the thick part inside her slowly coming out. She moaned at the emptiness and shifted her hips eagerly.

"Fuck," John whispered, pressing a finger to her wet hole before pushing the toy back in. "You want to fuck me with that?" He sounded as breathless as she was.

"Yes... Lie down," Sherlock instructed, making John lie on his back on the sofa. She slowly began preparing him, one hand inside and one against his cock and balls. He was so hard and Sherlock was almost too astonished to be relieved.

She almost thought she'd been wrong and John didn't have any bisexual feelings and therefore wouldn't want this present. But then she supposed this wasn't about bisexuality and more about prostate stimulation. She could fuck John and it wouldn't make him bisexual. But he was in some way or another, so it had boosted her confidence that he would enjoy this.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John gasped under her, his cock twitching and balls drawing up. She slapped them playfully, not enough to hurt in this aroused state but enough to shock him away from the edge.

"Don't come yet, John." She breathed, having regained a somewhat clear head. She shifted closer and gently pressed the tip of the toy inside John. It was slightly strange because the toy wasn't actually her so she couldn't tell if she was going too fast or not, but because it was connected inside her too she felt a little more of the resistance and the give. She paused and then pressed all the way into John, her hips flat against his arse.

They gasped together and she leaned down for a kiss, but the shift made John arch in pleasure, taking his lips away from her.

"Tell me if I hit your prostate," she breathed, slowly repeating those hip movements from earlier she'd practiced. It was harder to move, John was so tight, but that just meant the part inside her pressed harder against her inner walls.

Soon they build up at rhythm that was slick and easy, making them both groan with each thrust.

"Yes, yes! Fuck! There, Sherlock!" John cried, his hands gripping at her wrists painfully as he tensed. She could see his balls and cock clearly from this angle, as well as his hole, and she felt dizzy and overwhelmed by it all.

She came with a cry, fucking John in sharp jabs as her hips bucked. Her nails dug into his skin and marked her pleasure out. Hands ghosted over her breasts and throat before John pulled her down for a kiss. It was sloppy, but full of passion and Sherlock began moving again. It was a bit harder now she was sensitive, but it soon faded again and they were racing together towards John's orgasm.

"You look so good, John. Oh, I knew you'd like this. I knew it," she moaned, moving one hand to hold his cock upright and stroke just as he came with an almighty shout. He clamped down around the toy and spunk splattered all over her hand and stomach. His expression was twisted in bliss.

Once they calmed Sherlock slowly pulled out of John, then pulled the sticky and wet toy out of herself. She curled on top of John's lovely and warm chest, catching her breath as she listened to his.

"Happy birthday," she murmured, looking up at the man with cheeky eyes sparkling in the low light.

"How'd you know?" John asked curiously with a smile. He traced her back softly and played with her curls and Sherlock smiled back too.

"You drool over James Bond," Sherlock replied with a chuckle, poking John in the chest.

"How you got 'likes pegging' from the fact I find Bond fit is either an insane leap or an overly complicated story. Knowing you it's probably the latter."

"You'd be quite right," Sherlock replied, pecking John's lips softly.

All the thoughts of studies about what John was and why and how dropped out of her mind as they embraced in the afterglow. It didn't matter why they were there. It didn't matter about what made John tick. The only thing that mattered was that they were there enjoying it together.


End file.
